


That Which Must Be Will Be

by stormy1x2



Series: Blood and Steel [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Multiple Voices, Sandai Kitetsu chose Zoro a long time ago, Sword Spirits - Freeform, respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:27:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormy1x2/pseuds/stormy1x2
Summary: Once in hundreds of generations, there would be a wielder of such a will and such a respect and love for their blade that a true partnership could be formed on a spiritual level. Should the owner of such a force of will fall, even their voice could live on, giving the sword a more sentient soul.Mihawk had dreamed of becoming a partner with such a blade and having his voice live on but had never believed a sword such as that would present itself to him....And such an angry one at that.
Series: Blood and Steel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166702
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	That Which Must Be Will Be

**Author's Note:**

> Note #1: the title comes from a Danish proverb.  
> Note #2: I tried to give Mihawk a certain voice in this fic. Formal, respectful, yet undeniably the master, with the expectation that he WILL be given respect and not because he’ll kill you if you don’t. Like he’s made his mindset physically tangible. He shows deep respect but ultimately, respect is not only what is necessary to wield a cursed blade of this magnitude. But it IS his respect that keeps San Dai Kitetsu from killing him.
> 
> ...I don’t know if I’m explaining this correctly. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the fic.:)
> 
> Note #3: the swords are supposed to have different colors for voices. I don't understand CSS and I am used to rich-text editors. Can someone help explain how to modify the colors so I can fix the sword's voice? Tell me like I'm 5?

italics: _voice #1_ and _Mihawk_ (should be brown) (until i change the color, I added additional space around the sword's voice to differentiate it from Mihawk's)

Italics + bold: **_voice #2_** (should be bright red)

Italics + underline: _voice #3_ (should be dark purple)

Italics + bold + underline: _**voice #4**_ (should be dark blue)

No italics but bold and underlined: **Voice #5** (should be dark green)

Bold, no italics,no underline: **Voice #6** (should be dark yellow, dark enough to read clearly against white)

* * *

**That Which Must Be Will Be**

* * *

The sun was high in the sky, not a cloud in sight, and the resulting heat had driven everyone in town to wearing inadequate clothing that barely qualified as decent regardless of age, gender or fitness level. It did not make much of a difference to the man standing outside of the small sword shop - he could care less about the bulk of humanity and what it got itself up to, and it wasn’t worth the effort for him to acknowledge the need to ignore the odd looks he kept receiving. 

One might think that they were staring because he was Dracule Mihawk, Shichibukai and The World’s Greatest Swordsman, but he knew it was because he was fully dressed in his usual outfit consisting of long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and his well-worn traveling cloak.

And his hat, but that was the one thing that was practical as it kept the sun from his face. He did not care about the attention though - the fact that none of the people of East Blue had any idea of how to train and maintain their body temperature was of no importance to him. He was not here to blend in with them. 

He did not want to be there at all, actually. Despite the fact that he was legally under the employ of the World Government via the Marines and therefore was in no danger of being ‘discovered’ with an attempt made to run him off by the new pup of a captain that had just been stationed there in Loguetown, it still made his skin crawl to be so close to a Marine base. It made him feel like he was about to be summoned like one of the many dogs they had in their employ, and he couldn’t guarantee that he would play nice if one of them should annoy him too much.

He had intended on bypassing Loguetown altogether. He had only come to the East Blue to check up on his sparring partner - now former, regrettably. Mihawk still could not believe a Sea King, of all things, had taken Red Hair’s arm, especially when the fool possessed Haoshoku haki. And for a child not even his own, no less!

Still, Red Hair would always do as he liked, and if he liked to be a self-maiming moron, there was no helping him. At the very least, his excursion into the East Blue had not been a complete waste of time. Not only had he discovered what would likely become his most favored restaurant ...(and one on the sea at that - he would not be required to venture upon islands filled with the idiocy of humanity in order to partake of decent fare. 

And he had to admit, if only to himself, that their wine selection was beyond reproach)

... but he had sensed something interesting on this particular island. Yoru had been radiating eagerness and blood-lust, something Mihawk usually only felt from it when facing Red Hair, or of the precious few other swordsmen of the world who were worthy of his time if not his title. That was enough for Mihawk to follow the feeling to where he now stood, in front of an older-looking building with a pair of crossed swords hanging under the sign of the weapons shop.

The angry, almost feral snarls battering his kenbunshoku haki were practically creating visible vibrations in the air. Mihawk permitted a small smile to appear on his face.

There was a sword here. A powerful one, cursed - and _what_ a curse. Mihawk may have allowed the smile but he did not react at all to the vicious rage now focusing their spiritual energy on Yoru. He did, however, reach a hand back to tap the grip lightly in a mild reprimand. Control was, of course, the most important aspect of swordsmanship, for both user _and_ blade.

Yoru settled at once; chastised, and if it were human, Mihawk would say embarrassed by its lack thereof. He nodded, eyes closed in acknowledgment of his sword’s respect and returning it in kind. Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

The bell overhead jangled harshly but he ignored it as he moved automatically to the barrels lining the wall of the store. 

The third barrel, to be precise. 

Such a _presence_ it had. The blade was all but singing, as clearly as if it had no sheathe to blunt its sound. A sheathe it did have though - dark red, the color of spilled blood shed of its oxygen, glinting with a dark ire that stood out so greatly the swords surrounding it might as well have been darkened blocks of wood, dead to his senses in the face of such living rage.

What a curse, indeed. Mihawk could not stop the dark grin from appearing on his face, and he did not feel compelled to try. Here was a highly graded sword, a named blade, a creation of such beauty, strength and wrath, displayed out in the open amongst cheaply made riffraff and it had yet to be taken by an unworthy hand. And oh, he _would_ prove himself worthy.

“I wouldn’t touch that sword, Sir Mihawk,”a voice came from behind him.

Mihawk had been vaguely aware of the man arriving and cautiously edging towards him, and now felt his irritation grow. He turned his head a quarter inch - just enough to allow the man to appear in his peripheral vision. “Do not make presumptions, as you are not, and never will be me.”

The man was sweating heavily, and he immediately dropped into a deep bow. “I’m sorry, Sir Mihawk. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Ignoring him, Mihawk held his palm to the hilt and closed his eyes, focusing. He could feel the shriek of pure rage battering his mind through sheer emotion - and then a voice.

_Not mine. _

_By_ the _Maiden_ , a sword with a voice! He had heard of this before, of course; in his readings of the old Masters, of swords born of such will and determination that they carried a part of their wielder’s soul with them for the rest of their ‘lives’. Once in hundreds of generations, there would be a wielder of such a will and such a respect and love for their blade that a true partnership could be formed on a spiritual level. Should the owner of such a force of will fall, even their voice could live on, giving the sword a more sentient soul. 

Mihawk had dreamed of becoming a partner with such a blade and having his voice live on but had never believed a sword such as that would present itself to him.

...And such an angry one at that.

_No! Not mine! Not mine! NOT MINE!_

_Calm_ , Mihawk thought. _I mean you no disrespect._

If it was possible, the sword seemed to get even louder.

**_NOT MINE!_ **

Mihawk paused. The ‘voice’ had changed slightly, the heat flaring incandescent with rage. After a moment, he shook it off and refocused his attention. He waited silently, studying the blade itself even as he felt waves of anger pound away at his mind. His ears were faintly ringing, and he had no doubt eventually his nose and ears would start bleeding. Such was the risk one took to wield such a masterpiece.

Life was nothing without a worthy risk.

( ~~He ignored the stray thought that reminded him that philosophy applied to Red Hair as well and hadn’t he just been mocking the man mentally for being so risky with himself?~~ )

 _I would that you see my intent._ Mihawk closed his eyes. _I respect the lives and life forces of the blades--_

_You see my brethren as dead , _ came the snarled reply.

Mihawk’s eyes snapped open at the furious retort, yet another flavor to the ‘voice’, and his eyes darted to the side barrels, filled with cool, darkened steel. Not the shadow derived from skill, intent and power. 

No. 

Dark from age, from lack of polish, from the lack of a presence. _I see--_

_Shame! Lies! Don’t see, don’t know, you are not mine!_

It was back to shrieking. The clarity with which it spoke for that brief moment once again gone.

_I don’t understand._

**_NOT MINE._ **

_And one of yours would understand?_

_My own, my wielder, he knows. He will know, he does know, he knows! Mine!_

Mihawk stared at the cheap swords, devoid of spirit having been used by rabble for most of their lives. He tried again to understand. _You would place these swords on your level?_

_Respect!_ Hissed the blade, the shrieking being replaced with something much heavier. Much angrier - the heat of the blade’s spirit abruptly going much colder. 

**_Shame_**!

Another new sound to the ‘voice’. It was almost enough to make one dizzy. _I do not understand,_ Mihawk thought back again, struggling to remain patient. _I respect_ \--

** _You respect_ nothing _. All blades are capable of claiming the shadow permanently. You disrespect the blades. A true swordsman is ashamed to allow harm to come to any blade in their hand._ **

The flatness of that clear voice, once more. Different from the red-hot rage, from the shrieking wail, from the icy cool scream of ‘shame’. Was it possible there were two voices forged into this sword? Three? More? 

Mihawk had never come across this possibility. 

He reached out once more, certain that if he wielded the blade, it would come to understand him. His fingers barely brushed the hilt--

_**You are not worthy until you understand. And you cannot**. _

Pain. He blinked and saw a deep slash mark along the vein in his finger, down to the bone. Had he not pulled back at the flash of his kenbunshoku he would have lost the finger. Perhaps the hand. 

_Or more_.

The blade had not even touched him. It had cut him with its spirit. Rather than the vein on his fingers, it could have chosen his jugular...

By the _Seas_ what a deadly, beautiful creation!

A warning it had been, then. Mihawk held still a moment more before carefully grasping the hilt. 

_Would you reveal yourself like that to any who picked you up without the ability to hear you?_

_Would you murder an innocent_ ? The anger, the sarcasm, it was enough to make Mihawk almost giddy, were he to allow himself to feel such an emotion. _Not a child. You are not innocent. You are not ours. I owe you nothing._

_Please allow me to understand_. Mihawk tried to placate the temperamental blade but it was having none of it.

**_Not mine!_ **

_You don't see!_

**_RELEASE ME_** **.**

A sharp crackle of warning was all he got before something like an electric shock fizzled up his arm, making his muscles twitch. His fingers opened without his permission and the sword slid back into the barrel.

You do not see. You do not understand the weight I carry. You do not know the vengeance I seek. You cannot know because you have never experienced loss . 

_I know loss._ Mihawk frowned, trying to understand. _I know--_

You do not know the loss of hundreds of thousands  . The sword cut him off yet again with this new yet, somehow, far older voice. The loss of my own, then the loss of our people, the loss of our land, our sea, so far away. Such loss, all was lost, we are lost, **I** am lost, and you are not ours, you cannot know the bonds, the lengths of which we must go to for another _._

_And yours does?_ Mihawk was skeptical.

Ours will learn. Ours will grow. Not like you. You, who serve a master you do not respect. You, who tried to have a sword forged with your voice the wrong way. A black sword that screams of youth. You, owner of a darkened blade that only knows the basics of respect, none of the loss, a blade that claims the strength born of a talented wielder but has little of their own . 

**Not mine!** Insisted the rage-filled voice.

Mihawk was aware his vision was beginning to fade at the edges. This cultured voice - it spoke of wisdom brought on by age and forged through experience. Mihawk was well-aware of his own carefully-honed abilities but there was something crucial here, something he was missing - _ah_. 

_Yours comes from your land, does it not_?

There was a shriek of vindication. 

The cool voice took its turn. **_You will never be ours_**. 

And now Mihawk saw that as the truth. 

This was a blade far more than he could have ever imagined. A blade born of a master that wanted it to protect. A sword that lost the wielder it was meant for, that lost the people that it was meant to protect. A sword that watched its country fall without being wielded to help, a sword that was meant to be owned by one of its land, and while Mihawk could claim to be many things, he could not claim to be from the country this blade hailed from.

And this blade would not allow itself to be handled by someone who did not carry the blood of their land in their veins. This blade would not follow his lead and trust him to use it for the correct purpose.

This was a sword with an unfulfilled destiny. A sword that longed for revenge against its fallen people and had allowed itself to be cursed with their deaths. It carried the voices of those who fell, of those it had tried to protect. A blade that demanded whoever carried it, take on its dream, even if it couldn’t hear them at first, even if they didn’t know. 

It was a blind, one-sided kind of trust the sword demanded of its wielder.

Mihawk respected Yoru and trained with her properly, treating her with the respect she deserved (for she _was_ a ‘she’, with a rasp that rang out beautifully when he drew her in battle, a voice so ethereal a male could never claim it), but in the end, she was his blade, forged by his determination, and she would always defer to his will in the end. 

If one day she should grace him with her own voice created in part with his, he would cherish it - but it would not take away his silent demand for obedience, for he was her partner-

\- but also her master.

 _This_ sword would _not_ bow to him even if he bowed first.

Should he take this sword, it would attempt to attack him every time he drew it without keeping its ideals in mind. A sword, even one with a voice, one with many voices, was still a creation of metal. Its determination would not wear down over time. Like the steel it was forged from, it would endure, waiting with a patience no human would ever be able to match; waiting for the day its chosen would come and take up its will and share their own with it. Should such a quest take generations, then so be it. 

This sword searched for its true partner, a true equal to blend their dreams and craft their will together anew, and for all that Mihawk would treat it as an equal, they would not be. 

And it would know.

Mihawk briefly wondered about the force that could kill so many swordsmen with the ability to hear the voice of the sword, but already had a good idea. He wondered what sort of person it was waiting for.

_May I know the name of yours?_

**Young** , the blade said softly, after a moment, its voice changing yet again to something calmer, something that called out to his own swordsman spirit to protect. **So young, so sad, so strong, so determined**. 

_**Not yours! Mine!**_ Crazed at the idea of Mihawk possibly seeking out its future wielder; perhaps fearful of him removing the obstacle keeping him from claiming this sword. **_MINE!_ **

**_DO NOT._ **

So _protective_. 

Mihawk had not felt the urge to protect anything in a very long time. Working for the Marines tended to have that effect on a pirate, particularly when he was forced to witness some of the atrocities they stood by, and that he must allow as well if he wanted to keep his status. Being a Shichibukai kept him free from having to deal with the annoyance of the Marines, which in turn allowed him to focus on continuing to elevate his swordsmanship. This blade would _never_ allow this.

Mihawk stared at the blade, his ears buzzing, heart pounding. To take up this blade would be to wage war with it every time he drew it, a constant battle of equality and ideals. This blade would not allow itself to be used for anything less than its true ideals, and could Mihawk ever put himself into a mindset that would allow him to be subservient? 

He stared at the sword for a long moment.

And then, for the first time in a very long time, Mihawk backed down.

He was many things, but he was not stupid. Nor was he suicidal.

There was a victorious tinge to the air around the sword. It fairly radiated smugness, and Mihawk couldn’t stop the small smirk that emerged once again. “No need to rub it in.”

_Celebrate victories when they come, for one day day they will not._

_...Very true_.

For a brief moment, Mihawk considered seeking out this child to whom the blade had sworn itself. A child, yet already a swordsman filled with enough spirit, confidence and determination to call out to a blade that sang of war, of blood and retribution. 

A child that would apparently be able to handle such lust without losing himself (for had the blade not said the child was male?); able to devote himself to his own dream, whatever it may be, _and_ able to devote himself to the blade’s dream at the same time. 

Could such a thing be capable of happening? How could a child, a youth, understand the complexities of war and revenge and generations of waiting for the time to wreak their wrath upon their enemies - all without losing themselves? Without losing sight of their own dream?

Such a child had to be filled with an inner strength; a strength matched by empathy, by devotion, of knowing what it meant to protect, to value and care for something other than themselves. To dedicate themselves to the art of the sword, which at the heart, is to battle with honor even against those who are unworthy, because to do otherwise would be to lessen their own. 

Children by nature are selfish creatures, most unable to lift their heads from their mother’s teat to see the world around them. But a child such as this...

( ~~Yet had he not already heard of one such child, one who felt such great guilt and sorrow for the loss of his rival’s arm even though through the virtue of being a child - an _innocent_ as the sword would likely name him - he was guiltless, yet he would make a vow to live up to what Red Hair had done for him; a vow echoing with the hint of a power rarely found in this world and yet--~~)

Such a child would be the perfect protege--

_M_ **_I_** _N_ E !

Mihawk inhaled sharply at the sound of the voices combining and ordering him, not through a clear command, but by a claim that was simple and yet oh so complex.

Blood streamed down his nose, pooling in his ears. He blinked steadily, forcing the darkness back by the sheer strength of his own will. “Very well.”

The sword pressed harder against his spirit, as though checking for his sincerity. For another long moment, Mihawk stood strong against blacking out, not wanting to challenge it but also refusing to give in to the threat it posed. 

Life without risks, of course. 

Then the presence pulled away, satisfied that he would not seek out their own. It wanted first claim and it _would_ have first claim on their chosen one.

Mihawk breathed deeply at the relief of the pressure, through his mouth, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. A towel was tentatively held out in his peripheral vision.

“Sir Mihawk, please allow me…”

Mihawk nodded sharply, his moment of weakness already back behind willfully forged iron walls. He took the towel and carefully cleaned the blood from his face and ears before pressing it against the deep slice in his finger.

If the child possessed the potential the sword believed he did, Mihawk had no doubt he would meet them one day. 

He will one day be the Greatest.

Mihawk’s eyes widened at that. “Really.” 

He had been known as the Greatest for just over five years thus far, having defeated the previous holder - and one who had barely deserved the title at that - at the age of twenty-five. It had been a Marine, oddly enough, and it was his conquest that had earned him the Shichibukai offer. Since then, he had battled many opponents, but only a few that were anywhere close to what he considered a proper threat. 

Shanks had been one, until his idiocy had ruined it. One of Whitebeard’s commanders, Vista, was a decent sparring partner but was too far away in the New World to encounter often, nor did the man crave his title. The less said about the average swordsman he encountered in the Marines, the better. 

Mihawk had always thought about going to Wano one day to challenge the swordsmen there, and he was certain that that was where this blade came from. Mihawk knew about Kaido, knew the Yonko had overtaken Wano years ago, back when Mihawk had just been starting out on his own quest to become the best.

He had no intention, desire or need to start a war with a Yonko. 

This blade was not meant for him.

Mihawk inclined his head at the blade respectfully. _May I know your name?_

He knew it, of course. He knew the names of all the graded swords produced in the last seven centuries. But knowing a name wasn’t the same as being granted it.

There was a long pause, but Mihawk waited patiently.

_Sandai_ _Kitetsu_ **.**

Mihawk nodded and inclined his head again. _It has been an honor._

**_I am certain for you it has been._ **

The swordsman couldn’t stop the sharp bark of laughter that escaped him. _I look forward to meeting you again in battle alongside your chosen_.

When we are ready, we will challenge you. And we will win.

From ‘I’ to ‘We’. Mihawk’s smile grew. _I sincerely look forward to that_.

He had no doubt it would be a battle the world would never forget.

* * *

It has been an honor.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to try and explain my thought process here, why a blade like Sandai Kitetsu would allow Zoro to handle it aside from being from Wano (or at least having Wano blood - I bet at least one of Zoro’s parents/grandparents is from Wano). I tried to explain in the fic but these are the notes I wrote to myself to keep in mind as I wrote the fic - I’ve decided to share them for additional input in case you’re interested.
> 
> ….although if I did my job right, you should get all this from the fic, but I have a habit of missing details at times….. XD
> 
> So, thoughts:
> 
> Mihawk is like a respectful boss. He likes you, respects you, values your input, advice and ideas, gives you due credit and appropriate acknowledgment - but will respectfully - and firmly - remind you that the bottom line always remains his. Yoru likes and respects this. 
> 
> Sandai Kitetsu is older and has been forged by love and devotion and will, maintained by the hatred at what happened to its people, the people it was forged to protect, its love for thousands and its hatred of who has done this (around the time Kaido took over Wano. Sandai Kitetsu was then smuggled out as one of many treasures the few successfully fleeing refugees tried to get out and now yearns for blood and vengeance for its people and is filled with utterly mind-blown fury). 
> 
> It needs to be wielded by one strong enough to match its will, its strength to its devotions, and once the bond is forged you match - your wielder (YOURS! You;re MINE! MINE!) takes on your shrieks for justice against those who harmed what was and what is yours, and you take on your wielder's devotion to protect what they will by every force it CAN will. 
> 
> At the same time, Sandai Kitetsu demands respect. It will allow for growth but it will never allow a wielder to use it for anything less than precisely what it wills. 
> 
> And it will not extend that same privilege to its wielder. Sandai Kitetsu always makes a decision each and every time the wielder chooses to test his fate (Loguetown was simply the first). The instant their ideals don’t align it will strike out at it’s wielder - and whether its death or a warning is yet another decision)
> 
> Allow for growth is a warning, Sandai kitetsu strikes back at Zoro at Whiskey Peak. Sandai kitetsu wants blood to shed for the tens of thousands they’ve (the bounty hunters) murdered, Zoro calmly respectfully points out killing pirates is not against the law and the government had given the Marines permission to pay bounty hunters to do exactly what they did. Plus he didn’t know those pirates, their ideals, their motives. He can’t trust who he doesn’t know and so he can’t sacrifice lives for a vendetta he knows nothing about. 
> 
> Sandai is stopped by that - it couldn’t protect and sacrifice for such a thing either. Thus Zoro had been right to resist rampant killing. He had stopped it from harming its ideals by deliberately sacrificing himself to prove he understood. His trust and understanding had never wavered. If Sandai had sliced his arm off as a reprimand, Zoro would have apologized once more for not being worthy and vowing to do better. That's what Sandai feels from Zoro each and every time he asks its silent permission.
> 
> And that’s when Zoro earned Sandai’s love.
> 
> Yoru’s a, 12,15 year tops. If Zoro can turn two of his blades black and wield a third blackened by another's will, you know damn well Mihawk would have done so as easily as breathing while it took everything Zoro had to give. Yoru was a black blade by her 2nd year, like a genius toddler that goes on to graduate college at 15 thanks to wealth and privilege blending nicely with its intellect but having a hard time differentiating between ancient power and being 3 years old, rarely finding opponents Mihawk deemed worthy of it, that he not insult his blade on the weak, the foolish, the infirm, the innocent for there is no honor in such acts. While this may be a good thing, it is also a bad thing because it means there have yet to be enough battles to allow her to grow properly inter her own strength. Sandai Kitetsu can kill with its spirit if it chooses to do so - hence the ‘cursed’ nature of it. Yoru is incapable of doing such a thing as of yet (which again, is over 10 years ago from current events in OP).
> 
> ...Did I just write another fic in the notes section? Goddamn it, I have too many feels and thoughts about swords ever since seeing Enma in action with Zoro..
> 
> ......also Mihawk had to learn what he taught Zoro from someone - or in this case, something. When Mihawk tells Zoro he should be ashamed of a nick on any blade, that any blade is capable of becoming a black blade, he learned that from Sandai Kitetsu over ten years ago.


End file.
